


The Adventures of Giant Clam Man and the Raccoon Kid

by bmouse



Category: Naruto
Genre: AU, AU as Hell, Gen, Ghosts, So Creepy It's Cute, Supernatural Shennanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:21:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmouse/pseuds/bmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dead guy and a homicidal rugrat walk into a bar. Errrr, desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventures of Giant Clam Man and the Raccoon Kid

The assassins were late that day and he got tired of waiting for them. Maybe they were changing the times this week to try and catch him off guard. As far as goals went this was both futile and meaningless. Every recent attempt had been made between lamps-out and the pre-dawn watch change ever since he'd convinced them that involving civilians would do nothing to help their chances. Mother agreed that it was more sporting this way but complained that there was less blood, now. 

The west gate was calling. The moon was that way tonight and full with a tangible silvery light that seemed to solidify into a path over the hills. Almost like it was saying "Come walk with me, I'll always look at you the same way I would look at anyone. Walk with me until you forget what you are." The little boy went.

Gate guards backed away from his shadow until he reached the very edge of the thick stone door. Nobody challenged him, but nobody came to open the heavy latches on the service gate either. Head tilted, the boy considered the obstacle. He could stay, it would probably worry someone less if they knew where he was, but the white hills were calling.

"You're in my way." The boy told the door. "It would be better if you stopped existing." He said this not with his voice, small and weak with disuse, but with his will. Behind him, seasoned soldiers flattened themselves against the walls at the massive chakra spike. Hinges swung in the wind, creaking with their newfound freedom and trailing streams of fine reddish sand onto the pile that used to be the door. Obligingly, it slithered out of the way as the boy went out of the city, leaving behind the howl of the wind through the empty doorway and the sound of muttered prayers.

 

Most would argue that the desert makes people feel lonely. The boy liked it because there were no people talking and being with other people and being alive to make him feel more lonely than usual. His loneliness and the desert’s loneliness walked side by side often enough it was almost like they had become friends. 

Night wouldn’t run out for a while so the boy walked further that night than other nights. When his legs got tired, he stopped and frowned down at his feet until the sand under them hardened and then, propelled by pouting and unholy power set off up the dune like a small raft on an endless sea. It was at the top of the dune that he saw it, a glint of something white and half-buried in the distance. Being the only interesting thing for miles, the boy approached it, but being also a uniquely paranoid child he told the sand surrounding it to fall back and used a chakra-enforced tendril of the same to flip it over, just in case it wanted to kill him too. 

 

It was huge, bleached, white and caved in on one side. The other was covered in ridges. When he finally nerved himself up to come closer the boy realized it smelled like water and bone. 

Up close it was very beautiful and the boy suddenly knew that he wanted to take it back to the city and put it in his bolthole, it looked big enough to lie-down-and-wonder-what-sleep-was-like in. Though it might take a lot of effort and make him more tired for when the assassins inevitably showed up it would be worth it. Reaching out, he ran a small thin hand over the nearest white ridge. 

 

There was a loud gasp from behind him followed by a “Fuckin’ finally, it’s like I can breathe again.” The boy spun around with a speed that surely made his psychotic ninja ancestors proud. A strange, tall white-outlined man was behind him. Gaara (who else, really?) did what he usually did to strange men who tried to sneak up on him. 

 

“Whoa!” the man raised his hands in front of him in a completely ineffective guard as a sand tendril made a very nice attempt at breaking his neck before passing completely through it. 

“That’s pretty fancy kid!” he was shouting as he dodged but his voice didn’t carry like it should have “Please tell me you’re top in your class or something because if all you Sandies can do /that/ now, I am /not/ loving Mist’s chances for the next war.”

Since the man didn’t seem to be capable of retaliating, or doing anything really, Gaara stopped actively trying to kill him. (Though it took him a couple of minutes to properly cease trying to sandblast chunks out of the other’s torso. Temporary de-materialization jutsu existed and it never hurt to check.)

Once he stood still, it was evident that the tall man faded out somewhat around the feet. 

“You’re dead. Aren’t you.” The boy had read about ghosts in a book, he probably read more than any other person in the village. He had the time and enough boring history made Mother quiet.

“Yep!” the apparition nodded and struck a cheesy ‘thinking’ pose. “Top of the class for sure.” Leaning down the dispossessed spirit made a great show of examining the child. “Well, maybe not top marks in common sense. Aren’t you afraid, kid?”

The child who had lived his whole life at the center of a maelstrom of fear, hatred, and malignant supernatural forces considered this statement.

“Aren’t you?”

Brow ridges lifted with perfect condescension as ghost drew himself up into his full and rather impressive height. He had the audacity to snort.

“In a word - No. Pitifully scrawny orphan children do not, as a matter of fact, fill the August Person of the Nidaime Mizukage-sama with abject terror. Though you’ve got a nice old-school eerie vibe going. The teddy bear really helps.”

Suna’s Terror scowled down at his feet. Yes it was a completely useless instinct that made him tie the bear to his canteen but he couldn’t very well leave her for the assassins. 

Any novelty at finding out there was something left over when people died was definitely wearing off; the ghost seemed just as useless as a living adult with the added disadvantage of not being properly respectful of Gaara’s existence. Kiri-nin were the Enemy anyway but since the man was dead he couldn’t even fulfill his function as Suna’s weapon. 

Besides, it made him uneasy, someone who wasn’t afraid. He couldn’t deal with this. His fingers were spasming, a roaring rose in his ears that could almost be a voice. He had to leave, now. 

“You’re annoying.” He growled at the ghost’s belted middle, and with a last longing look at the inconveniently haunted pretty giant bone he turned and started walking.

For a few moments it was like the Mizukage had turned to stone. Then realization of his complete and utter dismissal seemed to dawn and angrily straightening his collar he floated up the slope after his retreating audience. 

“Oiii! Shorty! What the heck is wrong with ya? Aren’t you taking this stoic thing a little too far? I’m a ghost! A totally genuine supernatural phenomenon! You should be seriously impressed right now!”

Gaara kept walking. The Mizukage got a sand-wave in the face and then, reduced to a cloud of swearwords and fine white mist, had to spend a precious couple seconds re-materializing. When he did he was fainter. They were a ways away from the shell by now, and his haughty face had a haggard and desperate expression.

"Hey, weird kid! Come back! Geez, come back already! Don't make me beg. You know you're the first person I've seen since they dumped me here? I've been so lonely I could fuckin' cry. I'd talk to the wind if it'd listen."

The boy stopped and turned around. He was looking down at the Kage now, and the older man had an uncomfortably familiar look; wretchedly hungry for something and still expecting to be denied. Without waiting for a decision from his brain his leg took a small step forward and then gravity carried him another couple feet back down the dune. 

“It doesn’t. The wind, that is.” he said quietly.

“Yeah no shit” the spirit swore. At least he seemed a little more solid than before. “Look, I’d love to be at the bottom of a nice lake like tradition says but when my idiot successor was hammering out that sham of a peace treaty the morons took my bones but forgot my soul.” He pointed back toward the large white bone. “Come on back. Sit down, take a load off, and I’ll tell you all about it.” 

Gaara considered it. This was almost like interrogating an enemy, except pathetically easy and without the blood. Maybe if he could get some interesting information he could prove himself useful. Or at least hopefully one of those ‘Eldrich secrets’ was an interesting jutsu. Decision made, he followed the ghost, knowing somewhere deep down that he’d have gone anyway, would have found any number of logical excuses for his brain to accept, because... ::for this person, my existence is necessary::

Though if the Mizukage didn’t stop making those little beckoning gestures he’d be getting another sandwave to the face. Last he checked, Gaara was not a cat. 

 

For once the night passed quickly. The Mizukage ranted. Gaara glared at him. The Mizukage gave a long and rather colorful swear-punctuated summary of the Second Shinobi war and all the various clever things he had done to crush his enemies and make them look bad. Gaara surreptitiously took notes in his head because homicidal instability aside he was that kind of studious child. The Mizukage proposed an experiment to see if the noble and ancient sport of clam-surfing could somehow be adapted to this ‘Kami-forsaken, miserably arid slice of hell, no offense kid.’

The Mizukage would come to regret that idea.

 

 

Now stars were flickering out and a sort of lightness threatened at the eastern edge of the desert. The last crash had been spectacular and after another minute staring fixedly at the sky Gaara heaved himself out of the sand-bank and, with a small frown of concentration, fished out the stuffed bear. 

Surely there was no official shinobi protocol for this situation, but he felt some politeness would be appropriate, so he turned toward the sprawled ghost and bowed slightly. 

“I must return so I will be taking your soul, now.” he said.

The Nidaime weakly waved a semitransparent arm in his general direction. 

“Sure, go ahead. I figure I owe you. Even my advisers wouldn’t have listened to my bullshit for this long.” He was still exactly where he’d fallen after their rather enthusiastic stop - a position much improved by his lack of nerve endings.

Gaara nodded solemnly. “But first...” he squared his scrawny shoulders and proclaimed in a voice of great authority - “we are going to go down that hill again.” 

A wave of sand righted the upturned clam shell, deposited the boy inside and began pushing it back up the enormous dune.

“Yeah.” The ghost pulled himself upright. Though it was fading from view, his droopy hangdog face may have been smiling. 

“OK. One more time.”

 

-

**Author's Note:**

> Written to cheer up Zazz, as per usual. Since we agreed that the Second Mizukage was hilarious and his fight with Gaara was a bright spot in the current arc there needed to be a canon AU where the two of them hung out. Also transparent excuse to write wee!Gaara.


End file.
